


the flynn rider smoulder

by mallory



Series: there for life (a bug in cement) [2]
Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Other, Reader Insert, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 11:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18120248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallory/pseuds/mallory
Summary: You accompany Chris down the red carpet at a high-profile event.





	the flynn rider smoulder

**Author's Note:**

> Edited: 5/7/19.

The car crawls to a stop outside the brightly lit venue hosting tonight’s event where a mass of people are clustered and dressed to the nines. Chris is playing with your fingers where it’s held in his lap, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

His publicist turns from the passenger seat, and you share a look. Susan holds up five fingers, and she and the driver exit the SUV to give you some privacy. Bursts of chatter infests the cabin of the car before the doors shut out the world, and it’s just you and him.

With your free hand, you brush a finger over his slicked back hair and cup the side of his freshly-shaven cheek. Chris turns his face to press a kiss into your palm, and something soft blossoms in your chest. You let your hand fall to his classic black suit, where your fingers graze his tie. You swear the metallic blue brings magic to his eyes. “You look pretty tonight, have I told you that?”

He cracks a smile. “I believe your exact words were, ‘Hubba hubba.’”

You laugh.

He squeezes your hand. “I love you for doing this for me.”

“I’m doing this _with_ you.”

He kisses you sweetly and rests his forehead against yours with a sigh. “I really hate these things.”

“I know, baby. Remember our signal?” In sync, you both rub the skin in front of your right ear. You chuck him under the chin. “If you do it because you’re hungry again, I will leave you to fend for yourself. I thought you were having an anxiety attack, I cut Amy Adams off mid-sentence. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m an ass.”

He throws you a shit-eating grin. “Hunger _is_ an emergency.”

Susan knocks on the window.

Time’s up.

He cracks open the door, and the hoopla sinks into your skin, kicking up your heart rate.

You set your face into a barely-there, camera-ready smile, slide across the seat and accept his hand out.

The first few minutes are always the most overwhelming. The shadow of the imposing building looms over you as the lights attempt to push back the darkness of the night. Security guards hold off fans who are barricaded off to the sides of the carpet. Camera lights flash, high-pitched screams and shouts are thrown your way, and someone wearing a lanyard guides you along.

Chris waves to the people calling his name and even stops to say hi to and take selfies with a few kids, and when he’s not interacting with his fans, your fingers are locked loosely between you.

Away from the fans, it doesn’t get any quieter. There’s a long line of press interviewing celebrities, and further down, photographers are vying for them to look this way and that.

“You’re scheduled for three interviews,” Susan says, and turns to you. “I know we already discussed this, but have you changed your mind about Extra?”

“Um.”

“They’re low-ball questions. Do you remember? I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t know you could handle it. Twenty seconds, max—it’d really help out Chris.”

He laughs. “You’re really laying it on thick, Suse.” He wraps an arm around you, presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters against your skin, “Up to you, babe. Do what makes you comfortable, don’t worry about me.”

Worrying about him is all you do at these events. You clutch the edge of his jacket. “Chris will be there, right?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “You’ll stand there for two-three minutes. Chris will handle it all. The focus is on you for thirty seconds at most.”

“All right, I’ll do it.”

She hugs you, quick and tight. “You are an angel.” Susan leads you toward the line of press, where printer paper are taped on the carpet on this side of the barricade to indicate each media firm they belong to.

The first interview Chris does is with a new digital media and entertainment company. They talk and laugh, and he touches her arm in a reassuring gesture that has her entire face lighting up. When it ends, he waves at her and turns to you, holding out a hand.

“Extra’s next,” Susan says as she ushers you both past other interviews until you reach the spot designated to Extra.

As she talks to a woman you presume is the floor producer, you slip an arm under Chris’ jacket to hold his waist and lean against him.

He rubs his thumb into the small of your back. “You okay?” His touch travels up to the nape of your neck, where he encourages your head forward and meets your forehead with his lips.

You squeeze his waist. “All good. You?”

“Stay by my side and I’ll be perfect.”

Susan approaches. “All right, you’re up now. Chris, depending on the time she might bring up politics, so do that with what you will.”

Chris escorts you to a woman holding an Extra mic, who is speaking to the camera on the other side of the barricade. The light shining down on her is hot and pricks your eyes. You blink hard and try not to squint, especially as you walk into frame.

“Jesus,” Chris mutters, holding up a hand to shield his eyes.

The woman turns and feigns surprise. “Chris! Hi, welcome. And [Name], it’s so nice to meet you. Welcome, both of you.”

You smile. “Good to see you. How are you?”

“I’m so great!” She laughs. “Chris, are you okay? You look a little—”

“It’s the lights!” He drops his hand and squints at you. “Babe, are you—Actually, this is better.” With his back to the light box, he casts a welcome shadow over you. “I’ll just do the interview looking at you.”

You and the reporter laugh.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but it’s obvious she’s at a loss for words.

You squeeze his bicep, and he turns to face her. “Don’t mind him, a two degree drop in temperature and he’d be freezing cold.”

“It’s my old age, I’m highly sensitive to everything.”

“Stop, you’re great,” she says, waving him off. “You’re in your prime. In fact, you guys look fantastic.” She gestures to you with a grand sweep of her hand. “Individually and as a couple.”

You both thank her, and Chris adds, “I mean, I always look better next to [Name].”

You whip your head around. “Are you kidding, you’re _my_ arm candy.”

A giant smile spreads across her face as her mic swings between you two.

He laughs. “Babe, you’ve seen yourself in the mirror, right?”

You grip his jaw and turn to the woman. “Is this a handsome face?”

“Oh yes.” She nods deeply. “Definitely. But I mean—”

He grasps your wrist with a chuckle. “Hold on!”

“Can we”—she holds up a hand—“I mean, you complement each other. Can we at least agree on that?”

You raise your brows at him.

He nods with a conceding roll of his eyes. “All right, all right.” He hooks an arm around your shoulders and pulls you in to peck your temple.

She grins at you. “Okay, let’s move on.” She asks the typical questions that relate to this event, and Chris’ current project.

You nod and smile where appropriate and make it seem like you’re invested in the interview, your gaze riveted on whomever is speaking. All the while, his arm slides down to your hip where his thumb rubs circles into the upper curve of your butt.

“Not to spoil too much about the film,” she begins, attention turning to you, “but there’s a pretty intimate scene in the film between Chris and his co-star Gemma. What did you think about it? It must’ve been strange watching him with someone else like that.”

“Chris was very sweet and considerate about it all,” you say, and he leans against you, fingers pressing into your side. “I got to be there when they filmed it, and he made sure Gemma and I were comfortable the whole time.” He also cracked a lot of jokes. Specifically about his buttcrack.

She nods, but her gaze drifts to the side her earpiece is in.

“The production of it is very different to what’s in the film,” you continue. “But I mean—the final product was pretty heated. They all did a good job.”

“Aw, that’s great. You guys are amazing together.” She wraps up the interview, thanks you both and gives Chris the chance to promote the film’s release date.

Chris’ hand is clammy when he returns it to yours, and he walks you to Susan, who’s hanging back against the media wall.

The last interview is just as full of smiles and laughter as the previous two, but the reporter is bolder and—if you’re not mistaken—a little flirty. She keeps finding ways to touch his bicep, no matter that Chris shuffles away in a gesture that seems unconscious as they chat.

“They love him,” Susan says, pride oozing from her voice.

How could they not?

His hands find his pant pockets as he speaks, and she tsks. “One day I’m going to have to sew his pockets closed.”

The reporter gestures to his face, fingers almost caressing his cheek, and he throws his head back with a laugh, his finger getting caught in the lapel of his jacket.

“Speaking of hands, she’s getting a little too close.” Susan turns away to wave over the talent rep, no doubt to send along the message to back off.

Part of you wants to stop Susan and let the reporter have her two-minute fun—it’s kind of interesting to see the way other people interact with him and vice versa; he’s more boisterous and big. With you, there’s a certain softness and subtle vulnerability in the way he speaks with and looks at you.

The reporter’s hand returns to his bicep—and yeah, the other part of you just wants this interview over with already.

As if they sensed your thoughts about them, she and Chris aim a look your way.

Like a politician caught in the spotlight, you force a smile and wave. The woman waves back and mouths something, but Chris’ affectionate grin and wink in your direction is enough to appease you. His lips move rapid fire, hands and upper body swaying this way and that as a rainbow of emotions pull his features.

A touch to your arm drags your attention. “Hi!” Zoe Saldana is a bundle of excitement; wide eyes and bigger smile. “You look amazing.”

“Oh my gosh, look at _you_ ,” you gush as she leans over and kisses your cheek, her hand squeezing yours. You take a step back to appreciate her pastel pink dress.

“Come find me inside, yeah? We’ll catch up.” Zoe inches further down the carpet for her photo op, and she soon gets swallowed up by the chaos of people.

It’s hard to keep track of what’s happening around you; all the lights, people and sound seem to blur and hum. But everything slows down and fades away the moment Chris approaches, an easy smile on his gorgeous face.

And it’s like the first ray of sunshine after a dreary summer rainstorm. The air smells crisper, your skin buzzes with renewed energy, and a warmth blossoms from within your chest.

God, you love him.

You smooth the length of his tie, if only just to touch him. His sturdy chest rises and falls under your palm. “What were you guys talking about?”

Chris cups your elbow with a secret smile. “Singin’ your praises.”

You laugh. “Right.” He probably told a cute little anecdote about something embarrassing you said or did.

Susan returns. “Ready?”

He nods, touch sliding down your arm to link your fingers. “Let’s do this.” He leads the way to where Zoey disappeared earlier.

As soon as you step into frame, blinding flashes and echoes of black spots assault your eyesight. The cacophony of clicks and shouts fill up your head, and it feels as if you’re watching a laundry’s spin cycle. You lose your grip on Chris, and your cheeks heat up and steps falter, but a familiar hand finds the curve of your hip and you’re pulled into his side.

“Chris, over here!”

“Let’s get a smile, Chris!”

You press your lips to his ear. “All the yelling and flashing is like getting waxed in the fun zone.”

He snorts. “You don’t gotta tell me.”

You pose the way Susan’s instructed you to: an arm around each other so you’re half turned to the photographers and each other, soft eyes and a slight curve of your lips. Your free hand rests either on Chris’ chest or hangs by your side.

“Do something cute!” someone yells.

You share a glance with Chris.

“You wanna hear a fart joke?” he asks.

Your face pinches as you laugh, and he holds you closer, nudging his nose against your cheek.

Bursts of light hammers into the back of your eyes.

He guides you a little further down the carpet, his arm still curled around your waist. As more photographers down the line begin vying for Chris’ attention, you turn into his side and grope a firm butt cheek as you smile up at his profile.

A grin spreads across his face. Beautiful and genuine.

A flurry of flashes goes off, but they only appear in the corner of your eye, thankfully. You’re sure they’re going to come out with some amazing photos, but nothing would beat what you’re seeing from this angle. The intricate crinkles in the corner of his eye. The deep groove of the smile line in the corner of his mouth. The freckle on his cheek.

You press your nose to his jawline and close your eyes, letting the moment burn into the back of your mind.

“Come on, cheeky,” Chris says, his hand sliding from around your waist for your hand.

You snicker and sneak a last pat on his ass. “I believe you’re the cheeky one.”

He chuckles, lifting your joined hands and encouraging you to twirl along the carpet for your next set of shots. Your surroundings smear; Susan loitering on the other end of the carpet, Ryan Gosling posing behind you, blobs of lights blended together like a water-colour painting, and so many faceless people.

Chris tucks you back into his side, and you lean against him as you regain your bearing.

“Chris! Over here, to your left!”

“Chris, do your shoulder thing!”

Chris’ chin juts out, and he leans forward with a confused frown. “My what?”

The photographer slaps his shoulder. “The shoulder!”

You laugh.

Chris looks over at you for a clue. “What shoulder thing?”

You have no idea what the man’s trying to get from Chis, but you wiggle your shoulders like you’re bouncing a ball between them. His hips thrust forward as he throws his head back with a laugh, almost dragging you back with him, and a hand falls over his pec.

“That’s it!” the same photographer shouts.

A series of flashes set off.

You move on to the last mark on the carpet, and Chris’ grip on your waist tightens in anticipation. He looks out at the cameras aimed your way, his smile faltering as they continue to shout at him.

Using his shoulder for balance, you push your lips against his ear. “I love you,” you murmur, lips tingling as they brush the shell of his cool ear. You start to pull away when he turns his head and drags the tip of his nose up the length of yours. The trail ends at your forehead, where he rests his lips.

Your stomach flutters, and you feel dizzy but for a completely different reason.

You clutch him tightly. Just a little longer. You need just a moment longer to savour this: the loud strength of his body against yours, capable of supporting you on tough, weary days; his soft but firm hold on you, as if he’s afraid to let you go but unwilling to hurt you; his quiet, almost indecipherable hum as smooth, warm lips press against your forehead.

You’re full to bursting—the amount of love, trust and respect you have for this man is almost unbearable.

How is it possible to love this man so much your chest aches?

All too soon, Chris pulls away. Your hands find each other as he leads you off the carpet.

As soon as you’re inside the building, his shoulders drop and he lets out a heavy breath.

Your eyes relax against the soft, pale blue lights that glow from the bar across the room and from the centerpieces on surrounding tables. Well-known faces mingle about, their smiles warmer and postures looser. Bursts of laughter ring out every once in a while over the constant, easy chatter.

Susan smiles. “You’re done for the night, Chris. Good job—you can relax now. Grab a drink, but don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That doesn’t leave me with much,” he says, a teasing grin playing his lips.

She rolls her eyes, and touches your arm. “You did great tonight. Thanks for doing Extra.”

“Of course.”

With her job done for tonight, you and Chris bid Susan farewell and a safe drive home.

The next two hours is spent having dinner while listening to the hosts speak about the event, and mingling with friends and meeting new but familiar faces. You catch up with Zoey, alert Eva Mendes of the toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe (which somehow leads to her talking about her kids and asking when you and Chris are going to have one), and find yourself with Tom Hanks discussing which species would curse the most if animals could talk.

(“Now, you see,” Tom says, “I think Australian Magpies. They’re protective of their eggs and known to swoop at unsuspecting people. They’d pick up the profanity from the Aussies. It’s basically grammar down under.”)

The night ends back at your dinner table, where the few Marvel cast members attending tonight have gathered. Funny stories are traded for embarrassing ones, and inside jokes are shared with a mix of knowing chuckles and confused smiles.

Chris has his arm around the back of your seat as he catches up with Anthony on his other side, and Anthony is speaking about his kids when you hide your yawn into Chris’ shoulder.

They laugh, and Chris cups the back of your head. “We should probably head home.”

“All right. Well, it’s been real, man.” They clasp hands.

“Tell Shel and the kids I said hi.”

“Will do, will do. Drive safe.” Anthony smiles at you. “Good to see ya. Call me if you guys are ever in my neck o’ the woods.”

Chris leads you out of the building, stopping here and there to bid people farewell along the way to the SUV. The drive home is quiet. He has his arm around you as you lean against him, occasionally jostling each other from a turn or a bump in the road. He smells like cologne, cigarettes and alcohol.

Exhaustion weighs heavy in your bones, and you melt into him, eyes blinking against the streetlights that skim through the car.

The next thing you know, he kisses your head and murmurs, “We’re home.”

You groan in protest and snuggle further into him.

His chest rumbles with a chuckle. “Come on, sleepyhead.”

As you struggle out of the SUV, Chris and the driver exchange a few muttered words.

Through your groggy haze, you manage to walk up to your LA home with his help. You get through your night routine with half-lidded eyes that catch his amused expression in the mirror as he towels himself off from his quick shower.

He approaches you and wraps you up from behind. His skin warms yours through your PJs, and he hides a kiss to the back of your ear. “You’re practically falling asleep where you’re standing, cutie.”

You just blink at him.

He chuckles and reaches around you for his toothbrush.

When you’re done getting ready, you slip out of the en suite and into the master bedroom.

Dodger lifts his head from where he’s tucked into his own bed in the corner of the room with his favourite stuffed lion.

With heavy limbs, you drag your feet over and climb onto the sleigh bed, where you bury yourself under the fluffy down comforter. Your eyes droop shut, and you sigh.

The last thing you remember is Chris snuggling into your side.

 

**_~ &~_ **

 

You wake up the next morning wrapped around Chris. The ringing phone is piercing as you drag yourself from the warmth of his bare skin. You blink bleary eyes at the damn thing, and it takes you two swipes to answer.

“Hello,” you garble out.

“Where’s Chris?”

You frown, pulling the phone away to see the contact. This isn’t your phone. “Susan?”

She babbles about something that your sleep-riddled brain attempts to process. Twitter?

“He’s ’sleep,” you say, voice thick and scratchy.

“You’re _trending_ ,” she says with a laugh. “Check Twitter, okay? I’ll call back later. Sorry for waking you.”

Before you can say anything more, she hangs up. You twist around on the bed, lying back on the pillow on your side, and pull up the app. You navigate to the trending list and—#[shipname] is number three.

You click on it, and the first tweet that shows up has a series of images of you and Chris on the carpet from last night. The first features you caught in a spin and Chris’ face soft with what can only be described as adoration. The second is one where you’re turned into his side, bottom lip caught between your teeth with his eyebrows high on his head, the beginnings of a smile playing on his mouth. In the next one, your face is pinched in a laugh with his nose nudging your cheek, a grin lighting his whole face.

The last one catches your breath. It’s the one where he’s kissing your forehead, both your eyes are closed and faces slack with a quiet tenderness that seems too intimate for the public to have witnessed.

 _Find me someone who loves me the way Chris loves [Name]_ 💓😭 _#relationshipgoals #[shipname]_

Chris shifts behind you, shoving a leg between yours before his sleep-warm chest meets your back. His scratchy beard drags along the back of your shoulder, and a hand runs up your stomach as his rusty voice mumbles, “What’s goin’ on?”

You turn the phone off and shove it under your pillow. Rolling to face him, you slip an arm around him and bury your face into his neck. “Nothing important. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm’kay.”

A week later, you’re seated between his legs along the couch in your living room, attention flitting from _Pretty In Pink_ playing on the TV to the book in your hands.

Your stomach grumbles. “What time is it?” you ask.

Chris picks up his phone and holds it out at arm’s length, but instead of looking at the time, you catch sight of his lock screen wallpaper. It’s a fan-made collage of the both of you on the red carpet with doodles of jelly beans and hearts, and quotes that Chris has said about you over the years: “best friend and love of my life,” “a bug in cement,” “my sanctuary,” “we’re two idiots in love.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title and idea for this was spawned from a line in a fic I wrote called _oh, the cliché_ , which is in the process of being fleshed out/re-written. Shameless plug: it’s a Chris Evans angst-y, best friends unrequited love fic. If you’d like to be updated on its progress and be privy to sneak peaks, and if you’d like to send me prompts, join **[my discord server](https://discord.gg/8nbc6Rw)** (note: you’ll need to create an account).
> 
> * * *
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